


the dream team

by kuro49



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6972205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both are good.</p><p>(or Gaby and Napoleon have a slumber party, and Illya comes late.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dream team

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kakakc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakakc/gifts).



> another uncle ot3 fic for my ride or die sib :DD pardon the rusty porn, squint to read it as rustic.

If her father could see her now.

He still wouldn’t get a say, and Gaby would still drink her weight in alcohol and leave the room.

Without seeing another hotel guest in sight, she pads down the hallway with her bare feet and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She has an inkling that there is probably a much better way to go about this. But she also doesn’t really care because she has been with them since East Berlin since Rome since Istanbul and now here too, and they have yet to do a single thing still.

She doesn’t knock because Napoleon has been teaching her a great deal of things. That includes this. And this involves her getting to her knees.

From the breast pocket of her white and blue pyjamas, she takes out one lock pick, then the next. It takes her much longer even if it doesn’t feel like it. With the alcohol making her blood pump warm and quick, keeping pace to her pulse, it feels like no time at all as the hotel door unlocks and the knob turns without resistance. She is still on her knees with the lock picks held up between her fingers when the door swings open and Napoleon Solo is standing there in nothing at all.

“Knocking suffices too.” Napoleon says, looking amused.

“Where is the fun in that, cowboy?” Gaby asks as she gets up from the ground and comes into the room without breaking a stride.

His hair isn't wet and he really doesn't give her an explanation for feeling so at home in his birthday suit except his head is tilted towards the bed and really, she should've _guessed_.

“If you’re looking for a second bottle, there is complimentary champagne.” Napoleon motions to the sparkling gold still sitting pretty in its bucket of ice. “But you’ll have to promise you'll share, Gaby.”

“I always offer.”

He looks at her, like he is really seeing this time.

“...He just never takes you up on it, does he?”

Gaby doesn't drink one more drop.

She has enough courage for one night. Another drop, another tumbler, another bottle would be overkill. Her feet are still bare as she takes the steps from the door to right where Napoleon is standing. She is not being subtle even when she can be. This is Napoleon Solo after all. If he isn't reading her right, then she's got no hopes with the other one and really, she should just quit while she is ahead.

He leans down near enough but not nearly enough to close that distance between their mouths, and then she remembers he is still waiting for her answer.

"No, he doesn't.”

She reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck to keep him still, to keep him from taking a step back and not take her with him.

This is how she finds herself inside of his room, and him in nothing at all because he sleeps in the nude. If there were a shirt on him, her fingers would clasp it in a white knuckled grip and tug to render the distance to zero. Napoleon smiles a smile that leaves her thinking why she has bothered with waiting this long at all. She is not drunk but she is seeing stars.

 

She is on him. He is in her.

(And he is listening in on them from another room.)

She rocks her hips. He says her name. And she is not any noisier than any of the girls that he's brought up to this hotel room alone, but she's the one that's going to get him _caught_.

Gaby imagines this is just like the way it is in the movies she has seen as a little girl: The romance, the adventure, the life and death situations that they survive by the skin of their teeth.

She leans down over Napoleon to capture his mouth, teeth catching lips catching tongue catching that low groan that escapes from inside of his chest when she puts a hand on his chest to brace herself as she sinks down much deeper than his last thrust up. Napoleon doesn't kiss her like she is something precious and he doesn't think he can leave bruises on her hips.

The man runs a palm down her side while the other curves around her jaw, thumb slipping in pass the seam of her mouth. Gaby bites down, Napoleon winces at her whim and her lips curve into a wicked line before she is sucking his thumb deeper in like it is a promise she is not about to keep. She feels how he fills her and how easy they fit where they do, her mouth parting in a pant, his in a moan. She thinks of the way he holds her and how _he_ would hold her differently. Her breaths come a little shorter, a little deeper, a little like the rest of the world can fade into the dark as the heat builds and builds.

Illya Kuryakin, on the other hand, is much quieter than her when he comes into the room. His knees touch the end of the bed, and his weight dips the mattress.

Napoleon stills in his thrusts, and has to bite back a smirk at the shadow that falls over them. Gaby doesn't try to bite back a single thing and lets out a very frustrated moan.

She thinks she can see him take his purposed strides down the hall, his shoes silent on the carpet, his steps tracing her bare footprints. He thinks he can see him outside his door, his hand on the doorknob clenching down, harder and harder. Even as tall as he is, as intimidating as he can be, they do not see Illya until he wants to be seen. And he always does when it comes to them. Gaby and Napoleon keep coming back to him, and this is no different when Illya comes to them.

“...You left our room.”

_Our_ because their covers are never really as clever as they’d like, and they already have the ring to play newly-weds. Except Gaby is still wearing the ring with the listening device that he has never really gotten rid of and here is probably where the root of their problem lies, how she has trouble taking it off and keeping it off. _Our_ because he likes to be possessive even though he doesn't have any right to be.

_Our_ because they can make this theirs if they tried at all.

"What are you doing here?" Illya asks her this in Russian like they are not long passed that particular grammar lesson of theirs. Like Napoleon doesn't speak perfect Russian and this is something just for the two of them even if Solo is still inside of her and her chest is heaving from being brought so close to the edge.

"Wrestling."

Napoleon has an inkling that there is probably an inside joke that neither one of them are about to share with him when Gaby is gritting that single word out from between her teeth.

As blindsided as he already is, he can see it is taking Gaby everything not to turn back to look to Illya even when she could probably feel the heat of his body so close behind her. Napoleon is an opportunist if anything seeing her above him and him at the foot of the bed. He is hardly about to let this one go if he is about to be the bird that gets both the canary and the cream.

"More like a slumber party and you're late, Peril."

To make things worse, or is it really better if it ends the same way, Napoleon makes sure he has the other's full attention before he makes the show of sliding his hand from Gaby's thigh to where he is buried to the hilt inside of her to have her letting out a low, near desperate whine above him.

"I was not invited." Illya answers, matter of fact.

And perhaps this is the important thing here.

"You came anyway." She says, back arching, voice hitching when Napoleon moves again, only this time he is going slower, dragging it out even if it is already too much. Even when she is already so close. She reaches back and instead of grabbing anything else like the sheets or the pillows, she sinks her nails into Illya instead when she comes.

Unlike Napoleon, Illya doesn't wince.

 

She is still on Napoleon. But Illya is on her too. His body draping against hers, his large hands running across her skin, spanning her waist then her breast then the curve of her neck.

She tips her head to him, and Illya is there to meet her, mouth to mouth, his tongue pushing pass teeth to claim and mark and take what she has to offer. And it is only with a soft sigh that she pulls back, the taste of him lingering on her tongue. Gaby lifts up, still in Illya's arms and Napoleon pulls out but Gaby doesn't let him go far even as she gets off of his lap. A trail of his pre-cum smearing across the inside of her thighs, Napoleon is still hard and he looks just about ready to get out of the bed to finish himself off in the privacy of the bathroom or something just as ridiculous.

“Where is the fun in that?”

Gaby thinks if Illya has taken this long, he can wait a little longer.

She makes a noise of protest that keeps Napoleon on the bed, and Napoleon can only laugh. After all, the echo of her words does not escape him. She beckons him back into the middle of the bed as she settles down next to him. Her eyes are warm, and she isn’t really mad even if Illya still has a lot to make up for.

“How about it, Peril?” Napoleon asks and he chokes a little when Gaby reaches over to wrap a hand around the base of his cock, dragging up, slow and teasing. Like he is a much stronger man than he really is, and he thinks he can just about give in to her every whim. Resistance is a lot harder to come by faced with this. “Do Russians do fun?”

“I will show you _fun_ , cowboy.”

The scowl is really anything but fun and the way he bites apart the word really indicates he has no concept of what it means at all.

But Illya has a funny way of showing any emotion at all. He sits back on his knees at the end of the bed and pulls his shirt over his head in one efficient motion. The scars do not go unnoticed but neither does the way Illya’s eyes rest on the two of them, like they are something to be kept safe. Like he has been thinking about them since East Berlin since Rome since Istanbul and now here too.

His shirt ends up on the floor where Gaby’s clothes are. He ends up leaning over him between the spread of his thighs and Napoleon doesn’t think he has understood anticipation until now. He does not imagine how he must look, the sharp edges of Gaby’s nails having raked matching lines down his chest, hair mused and tousled, eyes blown wide with want, more dark than blue.

She has a hand around him. He has his mouth around him.

(And Napoleon is all for sharing if they are sharing him.)

Illya keeps him pinned to the bed with one hand on his hip, and Napoleon isn’t averse to finding bruises there the morning after if this is what he gets the night of. He says his name like its a mantra. He says nothing at all as he swallows him down, lips stretching wide around him. Gaby lets go just to reach over to tuck the strands of hair that has fallen loose back behind Illya’s ear, and if this doesn’t do it for Napoleon, he figures everything else does.

If they have taught Gaby anything at all, she has taught them the most.

Napoleon Solo is not an honourable man, but maybe he doesn’t have to be. Even without a single honest bone in his body, he can admit that the downcast of Illya’s eyelashes is really far more than enough.

And maybe, he has spoken too soon.

When Illya pulls off, his mouth wet and red, Gaby pulls him right to her. Napoleon can only laugh at the man that thought he would be having a quiet night in when he stripped down for bed tonight. He is, by far, the luckier man.

“So, partners, wrestling?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> i lied in my summary, illya actually never cums in this fic because writing two orgasms is hard enough.


End file.
